Tenessee Lloyd greets me with a smile
the only honest old man on the isle
the rest wear toupees, batty eyes, dirty knives, deep scars in their backs,
a log of relations with past "friends"

what can two New York kids do but shout their way through
the underbrush, down the harsh shoreline
while the depends set soak their sorrows in stewed prunes
seek solace from the Bangor work week and sleep in separate beds
away from their birdy wives

the duck hawk, the harbor seal, the little black spider; they respect our voice
like songs, their calls made through the dew clad forest equal the voice I call
to Liss from across the narrow ravine where brown water dribbles between
us to the sea

we took our vitamin C and ate all our greens so we'll be strong for the escape
but the marijuana and the match to light might be our weakness
with their graying radar in the marsh they track green smoke, hi heads, eyes that don't cry
tears of regret they'll mark us

mark us with invisible chalk, test us with punchlines to inside jokes but all we'll leave
is footprints and fodder for stories that start:
member when we marked them youngins
and end:
them were the days huh? ha ha ha
all the way to grave

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Free Williamsburg | 93 Berry Street | Brooklyn, NY 11211
[email protected] | August 2000 | Volume 6


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